Rose Tinted Photographs
by Femme aux Mille Visages
Summary: "There were a few sentences, Arthur realised, that he hoped he would never have to say as a parent."Alfred?" he questioned, striving to keep his voice level. "Why is Matthew wearing a dress?" Little snapshots into the daily lives of our favourite Hetalia characters. Pairings included are FrUK, USUK, and FACE family, as well as LitPol, Gerita, Pruada, and others.
1. Fountain

A/N: So this will be a multi chapter fic of one shots, each dealing with different pairings of our favourite Hetalia characters. The shots will mostly be unrelated, although I will occasionally do a multi-shot arc. I will take requests to see certain pairings in the comments, but please do not give me certain prompts for a one shot. For some reason that always gives me writer's block. Kind of like Murphy's Law for writers.

Fountain

Arthur watched the sunlight filter through the spray sent up by the fountain's jets. The rainbows flickered in and out of existence; flashes of colour against the hot Parisian sunshine and the dark marble backing. Personally, this was the only spot in Paris worth visiting; not that that said much, given his opinion of Paris. Still, his boss demanded his presence in this infernal country, if only for a few days, just until this treaty settled. He supposed he could appreciate certain things about the city: the Romanesque arches of the Napoleon era and the lack of rain, but the endless tourists, overrated architecture, and the worst people he has ever met. Shaking off thoughts of arrogant Frenchmen, he turns his attention back to the fountain when he hears a voice from behind him. Further evidence that Francis is the devil: think of him and he will appear.

"It is rare to see you this side of the channel, my friend. Boss's orders?"

"As if I would set foot here otherwise," Arthur sneers, but his heart isn't really in it because he has been distracted by a momentary rainbow.

To his surprise, France does not mock him.

"You like to come and look for rainbows too?" he asks, and Arthur nods, only once. Perhaps if he doesn't acknowledge the man's presence he'll go away. This tactic is not successful.

"Funny how they seem to come and go so quickly. Just a momentary flash of beauty-and then gone so quickly, with nothing but the mist of water and summer sunshine to tell you that they were there in the first place."

The implication hangs between them. Neither will say it, but the unspoken words carry a certain amount of weight. Arthur doesn't bite, though.

Francis has never been a man to take a hint quickly, especially when the topic is his unwanted presence, and instead leans against the fountain's dragon statues, tossing a coin in as he does so.

"For luck," he says casually, and sends a wink towards Arthur that for reasons unbeknownst to the man, amuses him.

"Lecherous-old man!" he says, but he's joking, and Francis can tell.

"Ah, screw you, Arthur," Francis says in return, and Arthur can tell he doesn't really mean it either.

That weird sensation hangs in the air again, the sensation where they're not quite sure what they are to one another. They know something is there; after all, Arthur can't count the number of hours he's spent with Francis over the years even if he used his fingers and his toes ten times over. He remembers a pre-teen boy taunting him and cutting his hair. He remembered having to fight a war with _Prussia_ as an _ally_ just to try and piss this man off. He remembers fistfights on cliffsides and constant bickering at world meetings, for try as they might it seems that they can never agree on public nudity laws. He remembers trying to _strangle_ this man trying to wrest America and Canada away from his terrible parenting skills. He remembers centuries of war, bloody fields and bloated corpses in heaps. How he could even endure standing in the same plaza as Francis, hell, the same country, was a mystery.

But he remembered Francis holding him when he was younger and had just been beaten by Scotland at sword fighting again. He remembered Francis leaving him a pot of bouillabaisse when he was sick and couldn't cook for himself. He remembered Francis giving Matthew Kuma-what's-it's-name before saying a final goodbye; and he remembered Francis clasping his hand and telling Arthur he was a better parent than he could ever be. And he remembered the days of the World Wars, the dark days, where all they could do was hold each other as they lay on the sofa at his house or the divan at Francis's and cry, shoulders shaking as they clutched one another, feeling the pain of all their dead citizens and the broken buildings and the destroyed earth of their lands, holding on to one another so tight sometimes they could hardly breathe, praying for Alfred to come soon. Yes, he remembers those days too.

Francis must have seen those ghosts in his eyes, but for once, that infuriating, senseless, tactless man doesn't open his mouth and say something so fucking stupid it makes Arthur turn that unhealthy shade of puce and punch him in the face-he just smiles.

Arthur knows he should do something-talk about the treaty, talk about Paris, insult him, something, you've been staring at his face for the past three minutes you bloody fool-but he doesn't do any of that. He just looks at Francis and Francis looks at him for a while. And then they both sit down on the lip of the stone fountain and watch the people go by. They watch people on motorcycles nearly getting killed, and they watch people walking with baskets under their arms, going to and from the markets shouting at one another, they watch people watering potted flowers on balconies high above the city. And they watch each other. Arthur watches Francis like he's never seen him before, so happy and content. Watching his people, watching the rainbows, watching Arthur in return. They sit there for a very long time; it feels like several hours but Arthur can't be sure. It is Francis who stands up first, declaring that it is high time for lunch. He extends his hand to Arthur, as if to ask, "Are you coming with me?" Arthur takes the hand. Before he leaves, though, he tosses a coin into the rainbow-filled fountian.

"For luck," he says.


	2. Earl Grey

Earl Grey

Arthur wakes up miserable. He hates the Fourth of July. He doesn't give a rat's arse if it's Al's birthday or not, he's not celebrating. Arthur hits snooze and goes back to bed.

Arthur wakes up for the second time that day. He knows that he's being horribly unproductive, as well as horribly selfish, but he can't bring himself to pick up his heavy head and make himself do something worthwhile with his day. Arthur hits snooze and goes back to bed.

When the alarm clock goes off for the third time, Arthur tells himself that he's being ridiculous and drags himself out of bed and into the bathroom. The pounding water of the shower is hot and soothing, easing his sore muscles. He dresses as comfortably as possible; jeans and a soft blue sweater that he's pretty sure is Al's because it smells of smoke and burger grease and musky cologne-on second thought, he won't wear that sweater. He pushes it back into the closet and chooses a Beatles t-shirt he hasn't worn in forever.

He shuffles into the kitchen and is greeted by an unwelcome surprise; Al is sitting at his kitchen table, looking perfectly nonchalant. He tries to head off the conversation before it even starts.

"Look, Al, we've talked about this. I'm sorry, but I'm not going to your-"

"I'm not having a party."

"-really sorry, present's in the-sorry, what did you say?"

"I'm not having a party."

England looks at him, flabbergasted.

"Why the hell not?"

Al shrugs, like he doesn't really have a good answer for that.

"Can't be good for the economy to do that every year. Been trying to save up so I can finally pay back China."

But all England sees right through him, and all he hears is _I know it hurts you. I don't want to hurt you. I'd rather have you than a birthday party._

"Here," Al says, and pushes a cup towards him. England sips, and very nearly grimaces. The tea has been steeped for far too long, and Al has tried to rectify this by adding several unnecessary lumps of sugar. But it's Earl Grey, his favourite, and he knows Al picked it for him, so he drinks it and smiles. And Al's face is shining so earnestly that he can't help but smile in return.

"It's good," he says, lying through his teeth, and Al looks so relieved he nearly laughs. Al spends the rest of the day at his house, and they watch Doctor Who together and play checkers just like they used to. Al even bought him the good dark rum for later. America's pretending like it's no big deal, like it's not even his birthday, but by the time seven o'clock rolls around, England tells him to go.

"Go have a real birthday party. Go out with Canada, or Lithuania or someone. As long as it's not France," he says half jokingly.

Al still looks uncertain, and Arthur sighs.

"Go have fun. I'll be here when you get back, cleaning up your vomit, same as always," he says drily.

This gets a laugh out of the younger nation who heads to the door without any further prompting.

Al is almost to his motorcycle before Arthur shouts out,

"Hey! Al!" and America looks up and England almost chokes on the words like the coward he is but he forces himself to say them anyway.

"Maybe next year I can be there too." And the smile that America gives him looks like it could split his face in half.


	3. Wearing Tortellini

The scraping of silverware against the china is enormously awkward. Germany wasn't entirely sure what had possessed him to think that a family dinner was a good idea. They could barely agree on the most basic of policies at world meetings, let alone make civil conversation over the dinner table. But it meant the world to Feliciano, and so he had reluctantly agreed to invite both brothers over for dinner.

Lovino sawed angrily at the tortellini on his plate. It definitely didn't need to be cut, as the little pasta shapes were small enough to eat in one bite, but it was a good way of expressing his emotions towards this dinner. Ludwig was glaring at him like at any moment he might suddenly jump Prussia. The brothers don't get along at the best of times, but God help you (not that they would ever ask for that, heretic Protestants) if you ever threatened the other. The only thing he could be grateful for, he supposed, is the fact that at least North did the cooking. As if he would ever eat Germany's runny potatoes. Prussia then decided that this was the appropriate time to unleash a rather large belch, then grinned.

"Dude, that was _awesome." _Lovino groaned and would have slammed his face down into his mutilated pasta had it not meant exposing the vulnerable back of his neck to the potato bastard. The fact that Ludwig looked as though his brother's appalling behaviour was causing him physical pain was comforting, though. Feliciano, dumb as he was, didn't seem to have picked up on the tension in the air, and disappeared into the kitchen to get another bottle of wine.

Ludwig nearly had a stroke when Feliciano got up from the table. He sent pleading eyes his lover's way-_don't get up from the table, the only reason that this dinner hasn't been a complete disaster and the house isn't on fire is because no one wants to upset you_-but his poor clueless boyfriend waltzed out the door anyway. He absentmindedly fingered his Iron Cross, not entirely sure he wouldn't be the catalyst of another world war-and if he wasn't, his brother would be and he'd have to take the blame. He'd only just dug his reputation out of the mud, too.

It was Prussia that stuck his foot in it, of course. The dinner, although far from the most pleasant evening he'd had in his life, had at least been peaceful. Lovino remembered when Spain had invited France, England, and both of their children over for dinner; he wouldn't set foot in the dining room for weeks. Expecting France, England, and Spain to agree on anything was asking for nothing short of a miracle, England had turned up with a basket of homemade scones as a welcome gift, and Alfred had nearly caused a small riot by coating all of their delicious cooking in condiments. But at least Canada had been pleasant, and France and Spain were Catholic, and as a general rule England tried to keep the peace, loathe as he was to admit it. Prussia...Prussia was something else.

Gilbert had, as soon as Feliciano had left the room, opened his mouth and asked,

"So, Feli bottoms, right?"

Lovino had been outraged. Not only had the comment been unpleasant by itself, Gilbert had been chewing on a mouthful of mushroom crostini while he did so, and the partially-digested food and spewed across the table and hit Lovino in the chest. Had it been anyone else, they might have been able to just accept the fact that Prussia was annoying and horrendously disgusting and moved on. Not so with Lovino. As Prussia was too far away to efficiently beat over the head, Lovino simply grabbed the nearest sharp object, a knife, and hurled it across the table at his adversary. Had it not been for his German military reflexes, Prussia might have been impaled then and there. As it were, he ducked just in time, the knife embedding itself in the wall behind him. Germany didn't even have time to intervene-nor was he sure he would be capable. He did have years of practice negotiating difficulties between France, England, the US and others, true; but the countries involved there really did care for each other, underneath all their supposed dislike. Prussia and Romano...he wasn't sure he could have stopped it had he been fast enough.

Prussia, clearly upset by the still quivering knife, had returned the favor by picking up the nearest object, the plate of crab tortellini before him and hurled it at Lovino in turn. Lovino hadn't really been expecting it-few people ever fought with him, except Spain, and _he _didn't really mean it-and thus found himself wearing pasta. It was everywhere. It was on his face, in his hair, all over his beautiful (and very expensive) suit.

There was only one sensible thing to do, of course. He flew out of his chair, hurdling right over the table and knocking over their glasses of wine in the process, and tackled Gilbert. Good to know that his mafia reflexes are still in working order. The two rolled around on the floor in some kind of chaotic Tarantella, oblivious to the crashes of things falling to the floor.

"Potato bastard!"

"Catholic pedophile!"

"Protestant heathen!"

"Man whore!"

Germany had eventually gotten his muscles into working order after the initial shock and was currently trying to heave the two apart, failing miserably as the fighting escalated yet again after Prussia had yanked rather sharply on Romano's hair curl. The fighting was interrupted, however, by a whimper at the door.

"Fratello?" came Feliciano's very small voice.

Lovino went limp in Ludwig's arms, and Gilbert followed suit. Germany, realising that the two men wouldn't fight if Feliciano was upset, dropped both of them and ran to his boyfriend's arms. Feliciano was having none of it.

"One dinner. Lovino, I ask you for one dinner, and this is how you treat our guests? Not that I don't suspect that he"-here he gestured vaguely in Prussia's direction-"had something to do with it. But like it or not, we're family now. And tonight, you've ruined the food, you've ruined your suit, and you've ruined the evening." And after that had been said and done, Lovino watched his foolish, childish, hopeless little brother stalk out the front door with the determination of a general going to battle.

"He did have to pick today to grow a backbone, didn't he," Lovino muttered. But he lacked his usual venom, his heart clearly not in the insult. Ludwig looked like he was going to go charging after Feliciano, but Lovino waved the possibility away.

"He'll come back on his own. I know he doesn't seem like it, but he can take care of himself. For short periods of time, anyway," he reassured the nervous German. At this, even Ludwig cracked a grin. Prussia looked totally unapologetic, but with a few prods from his brother, they did manage to get the dining room somewhat clean and at least in a resemblance of order. Much of the food could be salvaged-although he certainly wasn't letting either of the Germans near the kitchen-and he did permit them to go choose a new wine from the cellar.

It took over an hour for the house to even come close to clean, and Feliciano took another half hour in coming home, seemingly back to his docile self, judging by the way he half-tackled Germany as soon as he walked in the door. But his eyes looked at Lovino with a newfound suspicion that he had never seen in his brother, not even in the darkest days of war.

Lovino couldn't quite bring himself to apologise, at least not to Prussia; he was a proud nation, for better or for worse. But at the end of the evening, just before he and Prussia left the couple's house, he extended his hand to Ludwig. Germany looked at it suspiciously for a moment, then shook hands with him. Both countries even managed a little half smile. And Feliciano smiled back at the two people who meant more to him than anything else in the world.


	4. Sugar and Spice

A/N: So this chapter started out as a short, cracky-humour little ficlet and somehow turned into this giant fluffy, (hopefully) funny plot bunny. So I just kind of ran with it. I love FACE family, but I wanted some England/Canada bonding (I feel like a lot of people overlook him in favour of France) and some brotherly mischief. It is a human AU. Enjoy and thank you to all my lovely readers!

Sugar and Spice

There were a few sentences, Arthur realised, that he hoped he would never have to say as a parent. Today, it looked like he was going to have to utter one of them, whether he liked it or not.

"Alfred?" he questioned, striving to keep his voice level in front of all these people. "Why is Matthew wearing a dress?"

* * *

It was all Alfred's fault, Matthew reasoned. After all, it was entirely Alfred's fault that that Tuesday, they had gotten separated from their parents. And it was because Alfred wandered over to the toy store, brother in tow, that Alfred had spied the new must-have video game. It had aliens, it had guns, it had rocket ships, three of Al's personal obsessions. And of course, it was expensive. It wasn't that they weren't well off, or that their parents (especially Papa) didn't enjoy spoiling them. It was more along the lines of Al wanting something and wanting it _now. _The problem with this, of course, was that two six year old boys hardly had sixty five dollars to buy the video game, so they had settled for playing with the demo consoles. Nearly fifteen minutes had passed before their parents had found them, Father exclaiming "I told you they'd be in the toy store!" and Papa doing a bad imitation of Father's accent. They'd both gotten huge lectures about not wandering off and no dessert for the night, which meant dealing with whiny, cranky Al. If Matt had known how much worse his week was going to get, he would not have complained so much the next morning.

It was definitely Alfred's fault. And he certainly should have suspected something when Alfred said he was sick the next morning. Of course, both their parents began to fuss over Al, letting him pick the morning cartoons (even though it was _his _week to pick!) and letting him eat a milkshake for breakfast (for his sore throat, my foot) and generally pampering their poor little angel. Honestly, how they hadn't figured out the little act yet was beyond him, but he always thought that Papa and Father were just kind of making up this whole "parenting" thing as they went along.

It was not at all surprising when Alfred immediately began launching into plans of utter pandemonium as soon as their parents left for work. (He was mysteriously feeling better.) He knew his brother usually had the best of intentions, but did he have to be so...chaotic about it?

"Here's the plan!" his brother cheered. "I'm the hero, so you'll be the damsel in distress!"

Matthew squawked indignantly. "I'm not the girl! You can be the girl! Why do we even need a girl in the first place?"

Alfred rolled his eyes as if that should be perfectly obvious. "Firstly, because you have the longer hair. Secondly, because in all the books, people don't care about orphan boys, but they do care about orphan girls. See?" Here he held up Father's rather battered copy of Oliver Twist.

"Mon Dieu, Alfred, that's not real! It's made up!"

"Well, Father says stories are history or something like that. And Father is always right, so there!"

"But we _aren't_ orphans!"

"Sure we are!" Alfred countered. "Papa and Father had to get us from somewhere, because only girls can have babies. Like Daddy Warbucks and Annie."

Matthew could never go against what Father said, because Father and Papa were always right. And he never could say no to Al's schemes anyway. Especially since they weren't actually lying. Well, not technically. Somehow he'd never thought of himself as an orphan, because Papa and Father had been there for as long as he could remember. But he supposed Alfred was right.

He did, however, put his foot down on his brother's costume choices. They might only be six, but even he knew that people didn't wear clothes like that anymore. Plus, they all came out of Father's costume closet and were far too big for him. He managed to talk Al into wearing normal pants and a loose fitting shirt, but he couldn't persuade him out of the Victorian looking hat and bare feet. Alfred even rubbed Papa's mascara all over his face to make it look dirty (this was really going _too_ far, but no one could ever stop Al once he put his mind to something.) And then he forced Matthew into this hideous frilly pink monstrosity of a dress. Apparently Father had tried to make their aunt wear it when they were growing up, and she had never forgiven him for it. Although they were at least on speaking terms now, it always made family gatherings awkward. She and Al were two of a kind, they were.

He really, really, really didn't want to wear that dress. However, no matter how much he didn't want to wear it, it didn't mean he had as much upper body strength as his brother. Which is why he found himself, twenty minutes and three scuffles later, dressed in the hideous pink creation with his hair combed out and wearing some of Papa's makeup. He really did look like a girl, which sucked. How come Alfred got the manly looks? He was definitely cutting his hair short after this.

Things had already gone too far in his opinion, but in Alfred's mind this was just the start of the plan. Standing on 17th street and begging people for money definitely wasn't on his top ten list of things to do today. The first few people they asked had given them some odd looks, probably for their choice in clothing (he elbowed Al) but threw them a few dollars or some spare change anyway. Al, however, wasn't happy.

"We'll never make enough to buy the video game!" he exclaimed in distress upon looking at what little they'd been able to collect in their basket.

"Maybe we should try someone who looks rich?" Matthew suggested.

"Awesome! Thanks, Mattie, you're the best!"

And Al had gone right up to this enormous looking business man, tailored suit and all, and very tremulously offered their basket to him.

"Please could we have some money, sir?" Matt thought he sounded a little ridiculous-who in the world would give two unattended kids real money?-but the man loved it.

"Kid, that was great stuff. Let me guess, Oliver?" Alfred shook his head and Matthew clung to the back of Alfred's jacket. He wanted to go and he wanted to go now; this was quickly spiraling out of control. The man looked surprised but undeterred by Alfred's answer.

'No, Newsies?" he tried again.

"No, we really need this money!" Alfred insisted. Matthew had to resist the urge to strangle his brother, or at the very least not punch him in the face.

The man looked rather concerned at this statement and crouched down on the sidewalk.

"Are you kids in real trouble?" he asked. Matthew was violently shaking his head and tugging on Al's sleeve-_remember what Papa said, don't talk to strangers_-but Alfred wasn't listening, per usual. Alfred nodded.

"You kids stay right here. I'm a producer on Broadway-Jeffery Seller, have you heard of me?-and I'm going to get my people on the line. We'll get this whole mess sorted out."

With those words, the man walked purposefully to the end of the block and began to talk very loudly and persistently into his cellphone. As soon as he was out of earshot, Matt rounded on Alfred.

"_What have you done?"_ And Al just laughed that infuriating laugh of his.

"Dude, it'll all work out in the end. That guy will probs buy us all the video games we want."

"-yeah, seventeenth near Broadway, said they needed money-"

"Alfred! Focus! Reality! _We're not really orphans! _We have a family! And when that family finds out about this, _we will be dead!_"

"Yadda, yadda, yadda. You say "bad idea," I hear "opportunity." Lighten up!"

"-think we could get some cameras out here? You won't believe what they're wearing, must have stole it from a costume shop-"

"_Opportunity_ to get us _killed, _maybe!"

"-what? No, I don't want them _arrested-"_

"Matt, chill. Just relax and enjoy the free ride to fame."

And with that the man hung up his cellphone and returned to them, which made Matthew go quiet for the time being.

"Okay, kids, here's the plan. I've called my people, and they'll have cameras here in a few minutes, get you guys on the news. Maybe someone knows something about you kids. In the meantime, do you need anything to eat? Are you cold?"

Matthew shook his head violently and managed to squeak out a "No!" in the highest falsetto he could manage without his voice cracking. But Alfred never knew when to keep his mouth shut, did he?

"Yeah, I could really go for like a HUGE cheeseburger right now. Like one this big!" He helpfully stretched his arms out the widest they would go as an illustration. The man tried very hard not to laugh.

"Not sure we can get one that big, kid, but we can try. Ah, look, the cameras are here!"

Immediately Matthew found himself surrounded by more people than he had ever seen in his life. There were wires being looped around him, a blonde lady in a headset, spotlights that hit him right in the face and made it near impossible to see-it was like walking into a waking nightmare. Someone was yelling about a sound check, another was fitting him and Alfred with microphones, squeezing their shoulders in reassurance. Now he really didn't have to pretend to be afraid; between the bright lights and the cameras and the people watching him and all the trouble they were going to be in when they finally got home, he was scared enough. Al, on the other hand, was sucking up the fame like the way he drank Coke-frighteningly fast and with altogether too much talking.

"I love New York City! Because the people here are amazing and sometimes you get free pizza and there's this huge toy store that I _love_ going to-" Matthew tuned him out again. The producers were just eating up Al's enthusiastic gushing-and then one of them turned to him and said

"What about you? You Al's sister, right? You have to be, you two look so alike! Do you have anything to say?"

And Matthew's mind went blank. All he could think of was hiding, so he shifted farther behind Alfred's back and clung rather pitifully to his neck. He thought he heard one of them say 'Awwww.'

"Sorry, Mat-Matilda's kind of shy," Alfred quickly covered. "But I'm going to protect her because that's what heroes do!" Here there was a loud burst of applause from the camera crew, and the producer shouted "The kid's a natural! _Someone_ get me my talent agency, _please_, before I fire one of you. We found ourselves a gold mine!"

* * *

_"But I'm going to protect her because that's what heroes do!" _

Francis glanced at the news, half interested; sounded like a kid they were interviewing. And promptly dropped the files he'd been holding. He lunged for the phone. "Arthur!"

* * *

Arthur Bonnefoy-Kirkland had so been looking forward to a nice day. The stocks had been stable. The tea had been strong. He had gotten plenty of work done, and it wasn't even his lunch break yet. And then the phone call came.

"_Arthur! Arthur-the kids-télé-now-"__  
_

"Francis? What in the world is going on? You don't usually call during work hours."

"_Le télé! Regarde-lui!" _

"You idiot, you know I don't speak French. Calm down, love, and explain to me what the hell is going on."

_"Just look at the news. Please, for moi."_

Realising that continuing to ask questions would get him no further, Arthur obediently changed the telly from the market to channel 5.

"Bollocks."

* * *

He had met Francis at two blocks away from the incident, per his husband's request. They could see the media crowds from half a block away; evidently they had attracted rather a lot of attention from the press. As soon as he'd seen how they were dressed, he'd understood Francis's alarm. The kids usually got up to some hijinks, true, but they'd never done anything this brash. He was out of breath, he was missing work, and Francis had worked himself into a right tizzy. Oh, they were in such trouble when they got home. He and Francis were pushing their way through all the media workers now, people in well cut suits holding cameras and microphones and moving lights and other equipment. A burly line of security guards blocked the way to the boys, however; something he was most unhappy about.

"Excuse me, sir, but only authorized personnel are allowed past this point," the security guard said. "Could I please see your pass or your ID?"

"I don't need a bloody security pass, I'm their father! And this is-well, their other father!"

"-je ne sais pas où j'ai perdu mes fils-"

"I'm sorry, sir, but if you knew anything about these two children you would know that they have no parents. They were unfortunately orphaned at a young age. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave the area, as you are a potential threat. And shame on you for trying to take advantage of two kids!"

"-je suis le pis père, pourquoi mon pauvre Alfréd, mon pauvre Mathieu?-"

"For god's sakes, man! My husband is on the verge of a fucking mental breakdown because those are our kids! That's Alfred in the hat and Matthew in the skirt, and we adopted them six years ago! I will show you all the fucking proof and ID you need as long as you _turn the cameras off and let us in!_"

The silence sunk in slowly. One by one, the cameras shut off and the lights died. Voices fell away into nothingness, and even the producer said "I'm going to have to call you back," and hung up the phone.

"Thank you," Arthur said, his voice deadly calm and dangerously quiet. Francis, still weeping softly, flung himself past the guards and embraced his two children.

There were a few sentences, Arthur realised, that he hoped he would never have to say as a parent. Today, it looked like he was going to have to utter one of them, whether he liked it or not.

"Alfred?" he questioned, striving to keep his voice level in front of all these people. "Why is Matthew wearing a dress?"

The scene erupted into chaos. The producer yelled "that's a dude?" while others were begging to turn the cameras back on. "This'll break headlines!" Francis was babbling some nonsense about "It's okay, _Mathieu, _we accept you and love you no matter what-"

Arthur slowly lifted his head and turned the power of his glare on them once more. Once again they fell silent. Alfred, at least, had the decency to look sorry.

"It seemed like a good way to pay for my video game at the time?"

"Oh Mon Dieu.."

Arthur nodded crisply to the producer and his men.

"And with that, gentlemen, we will be taking our leave now. If you require further proof of our identification before we leave, my husband and I will happily provide that for you."

The security guards wordlessly moved out of the way, and Arthur escorted his family to the waiting car.

* * *

Alfred had dessert and cartoon privileges taken away for two weeks; Matthew only had it for one week (Arthur had said wearing that monstrosity of a dress on national television had been punishment enough. When Alfred complained that it wasn't fair, Arthur said he could wear the dress in public for a whole day, and that had shut him up relatively quickly). The two boys and his rather taxed husband had long since retired to bed, so he felt a jolt of adrenaline when he heard the patter of footsteps from the kitchen. He turned to see a rather sleepy and thoughtful looking Matthew standing just behind the sofa.

"Father, are we orphans?" he asked, surprisingly direct for the shy child.

Wordlessly, Arthur patted the cushion beside him, and Matthew sat. He decided that honesty was better than a fairytale of half truths, because he couldn't bring himself to lie to his children, who he loved so much.

"You _were_ orphans. Your birth-mother, she unfortunately passed away shortly after you were born. But because she passed away, Francis and I were able to bring two wonderful children into our house. It's okay to be sad about your mother-or curious, because intellectual curiosity is nothing to be ashamed of. If you want to learn more about your father or any living family, we could try to find them. Francis and I will understand. But I want you, and Alfred too, to understand that we love you unconditionally regardless. And you will always be my son." Matthew nodded, then smiled.

"Later, Father. You and Papa are the only daddies I need."

And with that, Arthur led his son to bed and kissed them both goodnight. He let himself fall into bed next to his perfect lover, and fell asleep thinking of his perfect sons, and dreamed of how lucky he was to have his flawless, flawless family, even with all their shenanigans.


	5. The Incident of the Whipped Cream

AN: I'm so sorry this is so late-I've been on vacation in Italy (said hi to Feliciano and Lovino for everyone). Longer chapter coming very soon!

The Curious Incident of the Whipped Cream in the Nighttime

Latvia really wasn't sure where all the whipped cream in the house went. He knew Estonia wasn't eating it, that much was obvious. Estonia wasn't really fond of dessert in general, and he really wasn't fond of ice cream sundaes. He knew Toris ate it from time to time, but he always asked before even so much as touching it, let alone taking huge heaping helpings that left Latvia with none for his daily dessert ritual. So that left the newest addition to their household.

Poland.

The house had been crowded enough without him in the first place. Even without Mr. Russia taking up so much room, the three Baltic states found that the apartment where they lived (for financial purposes, they would always insist) seemed to have become smaller over the years. It was like entering Antonio's bull fights trying to get to the shower in the morning. The sofa never seemed quite big enough for everyone to see the TV at the same time, so someone would always be stuck with that awkward angle that made the picture oddly saturated with colour. Worst of all, only one person could use the phone at a time, so it meant scheduling date nights was extra difficult. Switzerland gave him enough trouble already, he didn't want any more obstacles. But they had lived in worse conditions, and despite their minor frustrations with one another and the occasional spat, they really got along quite well. He hadn't counted on Poland being added to the mix.

Feliks made life interesting, to say the least. Firstly, he didn't think Poland was a very good friend to Toris. Secondly, he'd never met anyone who talked quite so much and quite so annoyingly in his entire life, including Alfred and Prussia. Thirdly, he was a bit of an airhead, which made dinnertime conversation utterly intolerable. He supposed he could have gotten over Feliks's talkativeness if he at least had something interesting to say (and he knew that this might have sounded hypocritical coming from someone who constantly got scolded for having "diarrhoea of the mouth" but Poland really took it to a whole new level) but his topics of conversation were rarely interesting or useful. And fourth, he was absolutely sure that Poland was eating his whipped cream. There were a few things Latvia couldn't live without, and whipped cream was a solid third on that list. So there was only one thing left to do-at least according to all the superhero comics Al had bought him for his birthday even though his birthday wasn't for another two weeks-catch the perpetrator!

(Here Estonia had interrupted his train of thought, which he must have been thinking aloud, to tell him that he was utterly delusional and really must have been spending too much time with America lately.)

So Latvia's mission began. He started by loitering around the fridge, hoping to catch Poland in the act of stealing it. No luck. He lingered at the dinner table, hoping that Poland would suggest topping their desserts with whipped cream, but he did not. He ambled his way through the house over and over (until Estonia and Lithuania yelled at him for "wearing out the carpet"), hoping to see Feliks stealing from the fridge when he thought there was no one around to see. He didn't. Latvia was at his wit's end.

It wasn't until three weeks after his unofficial declaration of war that he solved the mystery. It was late in the night, or perhaps very early in the morning, and he had shambled downstairs rather sleepily, hoping for a midnight snack. The stairs groaned oddly on his way down, he noticed, and he made a mental note to tell Estonia door to the kitchen swung open upon a horrifying sight. Lithuania was lying on the kitchen table, covered in sticky remnants of his beloved whipped cream. And Poland was licking it off of him.

Horrified, he threw the door shut, screaming as if excess noise might drive the visuals out of his head, and he could hear Poland letting out some rather girlish shrieks and Liet's cursing from behind the door. This was followed by the thumping footsteps of Estonia and the emergence of two very sheepish and embarrassed looking nations from the kitchen. At least they were no longer naked-although their improvised tea-towel loincloths were not a drastic improvement. Estonia took one look at the disheveled, nude and whipped cream covered couple, the messy kitchen table, and the still screaming Latvia (a threatened phone call to Russia shut him up at least) and very calmly went to the kitchen, where he wrote on one of the sticky notes on the fridge:

_Whipped cream 2 cans_

_new table-ask Sweden about bargain._

He then turned to the assembled crowd and said,

"I am now going back to bed. And anyone who wakes me will find themselves in the presence of a very tired, very hungry, very pissed off Russia, Germany, and Switzerland in the near but unexpected future. Any questions?"

The chastised group shook their heads.

"Excellent."


	6. Of Laundry and Leather

Of Laundry and Leather Pants

England rummaged through his wardrobe with a quiet air of desperation. He knew he'd gotten lazy about the washing, what with the current crisis negotiating between the usually peaceful Ukraine and her slightly psychotic brother, but surely he hadn't let himself fall to the slovenly habits of Prussia-or worse, America. But apparently he had. He was all out of formal shirts, with even the least dirty among them carrying the unmistakable odour of sweat and grease from his chips (admittedly, his diet had been declining as well). He couldn't even find a clean pair of jeans, let alone slacks. He pushed aside racks of empty hangers, the final act of a desperate man. He did have a tuxedo, but he'd never hear the end of it from the other nations, some of whom already considered him overdressed. There was no way in hell he was going to break out his pirate suit, even if he personally found it rather flattering. With a resigned sigh, he grabbed at the very last clean pair of pants that he owned (and they really were the last pair, he'd triple checked).

"Come on, old friend. Let's see what you look like after all these years."

After wriggling into them, England turned this way and that way in front of the mirror. They were a little snugger, to be sure, but they buttoned without effort and they sat comfortably on him. Not bad for forty-two years. He did manage to find a simple, well cut green t-shirt that could probably pass for something a little more formal with the aid of his informal jacket. _Better this than dirty clothes, _he reassured himself, and strode purposefully out the door.

* * *

When America saw England walking into the world meeting, he nearly spat out his soda. From the waist up, he looked practically normal. A green shirt and casual jacket, nothing especially out of the ordinary for a day in late April. But from the waist down, he was wearing pants. Leather pants. Incredibly tight, well made, deliciously sexy leather pants. And America came dangerously close to jumping him then and there when England bent over to put his briefcase down and America got an unobstructed view of what those leather pants did for England's already rather attractive ass. Realising that he was probably staring far longer than was appropriate, he swallowed hard and wouldn't let himself look up from his notebook for the rest of the meeting. (It was observed by Germany, who had noticed the source of his friend's discomfort, that America had taken the best-and only-notes in his entire existence today. Perhaps he should ask England to wear those pants more often, as a favour to the countries of the world.)

* * *

England did notice that America was unusually quiet and attentive this meeting, as well as unusually flushed. The nation rarely paid attention except in times of greatest crisis-and although he knew America cared about Ukraine's well being and needed little excuse to fuel his rivalry with Russia, he was far too self absorbed to care this much about policy making. So what else was different? ...oh. _Oh. _The pants. It had to be the pants. England let a smirk curl over his lips. This could be fun. When the meeting was adjourned for lunch and the nations began to file out, England called across the table,

"America? Do you mind waiting a moment? I want to have lunch with you, but I just need to get a few papers in order..." America nodded in response, still resolutely looking at the table. Oh yes, this was going to be fun.

When the conference room was finally empty of other nations, England finished gathering up the last of his papers (and took his time doing so) and sidled up to America.

"Ready for...lunch?" he murmured in the most seductive voice he could manage.

"Lunch! Right! Yeah, lunch! Lunch is a good idea!" America squeaked.

"America, love?"

"Yeah?"

"You're blabbering."

"Okay! I'll be quiet! I promise!"

America turned the swivel chair away from England as he rose, only to find that the other nation had looped around the back of the chair to stand in front of him. This was not good.

"Tell me, America, what do you think of my new outfit? Well, it's not really new...I figured a little throwback to the 70s was long overdue. Those were better times..." As he spoke, he pivoted slow quarter turns in front of an increasingly flustered America. And he had to try one more thing. The cherry on top, if you will. He reached out with slender, tapered fingers, and slowly dragged them up the entire length of Nantucket. Whereupon America promptly seized his wrists and pinned him against the conference table.

"I am going to kiss you now," he growled, and proceeded to lower his mouth to England's. If the elder nation hadn't learned self restraint and patience at a young age (growing up with Scotland and France around had required a lot of that) he would have finished right there. Instead, the kiss continued. It was deep and passionate and aggressive; clearly America wasn't used to being teased. When they came up for air minutes later, England found his neck, jaw, and collarbones similarly devoured, with America only pausing twice to growl

"Mine," before biting particularly hard. England would be lying through his teeth if he said afterwards that he didn't find it incredibly sexy.

When the other nations returned from lunch, there were a few chuckles and lewd comments from the other nations. England sighed, America joined in on the boisterous good humour. Germany just looked as though he was not paid nearly enough to put up with the antics of the other nations. But despite all his blustering, he did sit down in America's lap-after much wheedling from the other nation-and when the countries did finally stop staring at them he whispered "Mine" in return. And both he and America smiled.

* * *

As he undressed that evening, he contemplated doing the washing that he so desperately needed to do. But then again, his pants had been so effective... Maybe he would break out his old pirate clothes again.


	7. Russian Tea

AN: This is my first time writing Russia and America, so reviews on how I wrote their relationship here are appreciated. Also, feel free to tell me what pairings you'd like to see, see more of, see less of, which ones I write well, etc. I will also be working on and uploading a multichapter, plot based (scandalous, I know) based fic sometime in the near future, so keep an eye out for that. Thought it was time I tried something new. Also have been reading a lot of Hemingway recently, so I thought I'd try something more dialogue based rather than descriptive. It was fun to write! Many thanks to those of you who follow this fic or read it regularly, and welcome to those who are dropping in for the first time. I love that you take time out of your day to read my work. Without further ado, the fic-enjoy!

Russian Tea

Alfred woke up to the sound of a shrill phone ring. He groaned, rolling over onto his stomach. It felt like he was having the worst hangover of his life-only that didn't make sense, because he hadn't had anything to drink last night. Seriously, he'd been so swamped with paperwork he hadn't even had a beer, which was well within the realm of his alcohol tolerance anyway. So why was he-nevermind, the phone was on its last ring. He picked up with a click.

"Hello?" he croaked, then cleared his throat to get rid of the raspy sound. God, what was wrong with him today?

"Hello? This is Ludwig. I was wondering if you were planning on attending the meeting today, especially given that it started forty-five minutes ago."

"Ah, shit! Luddy-"

"Don't call me that!"

"-I seem to have overslept-"

"...America? Are you feeling all right?"

"Huh? Yeah, fine. Just a little funny, I guess. But not bad. I'll be there in half an hour."

"It's fine, we're only discussing the Olympics today. You sound sick; stay home and rest. We don't want you infecting anyone else."

"Whaaaat? Dude, heroes don't get sick!"

Here there was some muffled noise that sounded a lot like an argument. When the phone was speaking clearly again, the voice had a remarkably different accent.

"Alfred. You're sick. Stay home, for god's sakes!"

"Hey, Arthur, nice to hear from you. How are you? I'm great!"

"If you're sick you shouldn't be wasting your breath making meaningless small talk."

"Hah! Dude, Iggy, you're like the biggest small talker there is!"

England sighed. America could almost see the other nation pinching his nose, enormous eyebrows knotted together in frustration.

"Listen, I can't come over until after the meeting wraps up-I'll send someone else over with some food and tea."

Here England was interrupted by a distant-sounding

"Feel better America!"

and again by a

"Nein! Do not interrupt people when they are on the phone! It is rude!"

before finishing with a frustrated sigh.

"I'll call you later."

America normally would have been angry that someone had hung up on him, but his head was spinning so badly that all he wanted was to lie back down. Unfortunately, if someone was coming over, that wasn't an option. He did manage to drag himself out of bed, whereupon he promptly bolted for the bathroom and retched up bile. Maybe he really was sick.

Gathering a blanket and some throw pillows, he did manage to build a nest for himself on the sofa of his apartment and sleep for another while-an hour? two? time passed strangely in the fogginess of his mind-before the doorbell rang.

"It's unlocked," he called out.

"Amerika, you should really be more careful, da?"

Oh fuck no. Oh Iggy did not just-he must be hallucinating-why the hell was Russia here? After a moment's contemplation, Alfred still hadn't found a plausible answer, so he phrased the question aloud.

"Russia, what the hell are you doing in my house?"

"England sent me. He said you'd need someone to take care of you because you are sick."

"I can take care of myself just fine."

"Have you taken any medicine?"

"No."

"Have you tried any herbal remedies, like tea or honey?"

"No."

"Have you had anything to eat?"

"No."

"Have you done anything to make yourself well again?"

"No, dammit, I've been miserable all morning! I haven't had the energy to do fuck all!"

"Then that is why you need someone to take care of you."

"Ack, just-I'll get over it in a few days. Must just be an economic downturn."

"You will get over it more quickly if you make an effort with your health regardless of the cause."

Alfred wanted to argue more, he really did. But right now his head was pounding so badly it felt like a midget was taking an axe to the inside of his skull, right behind his eye. All he wanted to do was lie down somewhere dark and quiet. With a groan, he sank back onto the pillows, mumbling curses into the fabric. Russia seemed to have noticed the change in the other nation's behaviour and softened. He rooted through a few drawers until he found the cutlery, then poured some of the cough syrup England had given him onto a spoon. Raising it to America's lips, he said

"Amerika, say 'Ahhh," but America turned his head away. He should have expected Alfred to be stubborn. He pushed it against his lips again, and when Alfred turned away and opened his mouth to protest, he slipped the spoon in. Honestly, it was like dealing with a child. He let America sleep for a while while he brewed some tea (strong black tea with oranges and honey, always best for a cold) and started chopping vegetables for the soup. He had to admit America looked almost...sweet, tucked up under the blankets and very sleepy looking. The mismatched superhero boxers and tshirt, plus the lopsided glasses (he couldn't remember what state they were) added a touch of child-like charm, and the way he was tucked up under the afghan gave him an air of not vulnerability, exactly, but a certain peacefulness he didn't have when he was fully himself.

When Alfred woke again about two hours later, the borscht was already simmering, well on its way to being finished, and Ivan was actually humming as he cooked.

"Russia?"

"Ah, Alfred, you are up. Nyet, don't get up! Sit. Here, tea. Drink the tea, it will make you feel better."

Alfred, after the cough syrup incident, knew better than to argue. Besides, unlike Artie's tea, this actually tasted good. Sweet and very citrusy.

"What are you cooking? Is it burgers?" He looked so hopeful Ivan actually felt bad about saying no. It was like saying no to a puppy.

"Nyet. I am making borscht. It is traditional Russian soup made from vegetables. It is very healthy."

America pulled a face but did as he was told. The soup was surprisingly good. Had the unpleasant taste of vegetables, but it was simple, and the fact that it was liquidy made it easier to keep down. The day passed in a haze of soup and tea and Russian accents, punctuated by the occasional cartoon whenever he was feeling up to the challenge of keeping his eyes awake for more than thirty seconds at a time. He hadn't expected Russia to be this...well, this kind. But the older nation had been remarkably patient with him. That was the last thought Alfred had before dozing off again.

It was nearly six by the time England arrived, shaking water off of his umbrella and wellies with aggression.

"Dear God, the meeting ran over because so many people were sleeping through it, it was really that dull-" England paused to slip out of his raincoat and hang it on the top of the doorframe, as he saw neither coat rack nor hall closet.

"-and the traffic was absolutely horrendous on the way home, absolute bollocks, please say that Alfred's doing all right, he usually has such tantrums when he's sick-"

"He is fine, England. He's asleep on the sofa in the living room; I think he was watching some cartoons earlier."

England looked positively baffled.

"Asleep? Really? Are you sure he's not just pretending?"

Russia nodded. England looked at him with something Russia wasn't exactly used to: admiration.

"I'm really quite impressed, usually it takes no fewer than three people to handle him. Well, if he's asleep you could get back to your own work, that is unless you want to stay for tea? You're more than welcome, especially after taking care of Alfred all day."

Suppressing a shudder for the sake of good manners (even he feared England's food), he shook his head.

"Nyet, I think I will be going. I have much of the paperwork to be catching up on. I give you my thanks; may I say goodnight to Alfred?" Without waiting for a reply, he moved from the kitchen to the main room. Alfred stirred at the sound of footsteps.

"Fredka, you are awake."

"Yeah...is Iggy home?"

"Mm, he got in a few minutes ago. He is cooking the dinner now; if I were you I'd keep up the sickness for a while."

At that Alfred actually laughed.

"Dude, you have a point. Hey, Russia-"

"Ivan."

"Ivan," he mumbled, still half asleep.

"Da, Fredka?"

"If...if you ever need me to take care of you...when you're sick, I totally would."

"As long as you are not putting the hamburger on my forehead. Goodnight, Fredka."

"Mm, nighty-night."


	8. Two One-Way Tickets to Paris

Two One-Way Tickets to Paris

The rain was beautiful, Alfred thought. Very beautiful, and very English. The ground squelched pleasantly beneath his feet, that strange sucking sound that mud made when your feet were almost pulled right out of your boots because it was so wet and mucky. He turned, sinking against the trunk of a tree, tipping his head back and letting the drops of rain fall into his mouth, cold even in the summer. He stood like that for several minutes. Some of his military training had nagged in the back of his mind for the first few-_you're leaving yourself vulnerable!-_but that faded with time. After all, there were no more bullets raining down on him from all directions, no swoop in the pit of his stomach as the plane tilted around him, no constant waking in the middle of the night with the air sirens shrieking as another round of bombs leveled the ground around them. Just quiet rain. Said quiet rain was promptly interrupted by a heavily accented French voice.

"Alfred! Mon ami, it is good to see you!"

"Captain Bonnefoy!" Alfred shouted good naturedly in return. The two men clapped each other on the back, Francis pressing a featherlight kiss to the American's cheek.

"Please, Alfred, it is only Francis." He shook his head. "And how is dear Mathieu?"

"Pining for your cooking, I'm sure," Alfred replied. "Since we've been back all I've wanted to eat was old fashioned American burgers and fries, and I think he's suffering from a bit of palate fatigue."

"I suppose it is a good thing you and Arthur found each other, then, as only you two can stomach each other's cooking."

"I suppose it is."

There was a quiet lull in the conversation, where neither man was really certain as to what to say. Their plans for the future, this entire plan had seemed so brave and certain when spoken the first few days after the war had ended. Where it had been so easy to unwrap six chocolate bars in a row after months of rations, where it had been easy to ignore the two missing fingers on Francis's left hand and the jagged scabbing wound over his own hipbone, where he could hug Arthur six times in twenty minutes and no one thought anything of it. No one thought much of anything that day; they were young and wild and finally free, if hardened by the smoke and bullet wounds and shrapnel. But now those dreams and promises made in the golden light of victory seemed foolhardy and damn near impossible.

"Francis, what if he-?" Alfred lets the question hang unfinished in the air, as if voicing his fears might somehow bring them to fruition.

Francis chuckled. "I've known Arthur longer than you have-I fought beside him years before your plane ever swooped over German soil. The man is proud, and insufferable at times, and woefully stubborn, but I've never known him to give up on someone he cared for. When I was shot in the leg and the rest of the squad was willing to leave me-Arthur wouldn't. He cursed me and grumbled at me and said if I killed him he'd haunt me for the rest of my days and well into the afterlife-but he saved me all the same. And he loves you more than anything he's ever cared about in his whole life. He'll be here."

Alfred falls back into contemplative silence. Out of habit, his hand goes to the little scrap of fabric knotted around his upper left arm. It used to be white, embroidered with blue thread (he knew Arthur did it himself, and for all his ribbing it was really quite good) sewn in the shape of an A. It was stained with blood, and soot, and grease from the plane, but it was his lucky charm and it had brought him home safe, just like Arthur promised it would. They all had them; the war had too many dead men for people not to. Francis always carried around a maple leaf, red as a garnet, pressed on heavy ivory coloured paper. Thick stuff, good quality. His brother carried around a little miniature polar bear, similar to the teddy bear he'd had as a child (and was still nestled safely in the attic of their childhood home). He had his bomber jacket, and later, Arthur's hankie. Arthur-Arthur always said it was the gold earring in his left ear, but his real charm was Alfred. He had a photograph of him sewn into the lining of his jacket. He kept every single one of their letters, even though they couldn't say much because of the censors. And a little vial of the aftershave Alfred always wore, Barbasol.

He was brought out of his reverie by a shout.

"Alfred!" the figure called, and the young aviator's face lit up.

"Arthur!" he called in return, arms half flailing as he waved with excitement. He ran towards the man, slowing with a wince as the movement pulled at the last of the stitches in his hip. "Damn wound," he muttered with a scowl. And then he found himself in Arthur's arms. God, how he'd missed this closeness, this warmth, the feeling of completion. They kissed, Arthur's lips hot and dry, Alfred's wet from drinking in the rain, tasting of honey and salt and something almost buttery, tasting of army rations and celebratory sweets and warm beer, tasting of whiskey and breakfast tea and coffee so strong it made your eyes water, tasting of ink blotted paper and sugar roses, of everything and nothing at all. It was blissful.

Francis smiled as he watched the two of them cling to one another like lost puppies, desperate not to let go for the fear that they might never find one another again. He cleared his throat, which made Arthur leap away from the other man, sheepish and apologetic. Francis laughed at the other man's stammered apologies and self-conscious face.

"There is no need to apologise, my friend. I am happy to see you both in good health and happy."

"Then why did you interrupt us?" Alfred grumbled.

"Because I never grow tired of teasing poor Arthur. Think of it as revenge for all the times he called me frog face-although this drags _you_ into his punishment...perhaps I'll have to come up with another strategy."

The little group paused for a minute, unsure of exactly how to begin a goodbye now that there was no danger of it being forever. It felt like it, though-felt like the end of an era.

"So I guess we'll be going, then," Arthur said, evidently feeling uncomfortable. "Starting the new chapter of our lives and all that."

Francis looked at them with soft eyes, the moment bittersweet. "Here. I've left you a list of restaurants in Paris that you should go to, some of my personal favourites. You'll like it there, I promise."

They all nodded again, touched at his display of thoughtfulness.

"We'll see you around, though, right?" Alfred asked. "I mean, you live in France..."

Francis laughed, happy to diffuse some of the tension.

"But of course, mon ami! I know I'll be spending some time with Mathieu in Canada for a while...but if things go well-who knows? We may have to join you in Paris," he said with a wink.

"Take good care of Mattie for me. He's kind of like family," Alfred piped up.

"I would never dream otherwise."

"I...I guess this is goodbye, then?" Alfred said tentatively.

"Brilliant powers of deduction at work again?"

The two men hugged, Alfred clapping Francis on the back several times before backing away.

"You were a good captain...and a better friend."

"I could not have asked for a more loyal friend myself. Or a better flier."

Then it was Francis and Arthur, and the two men looked at each other for a long time. Alfred wasn't sure what they saw, staring each other down like that, but it must have been powerful, because both men were both blinking away tears after a few seconds. Francis put his arms around the Englishman tentatively, as though unsure as to how he'd react, and then tightened his arms when he felt Arthur return the gesture. The motion encompassed years of friendship-rivalry aside, due to their competitive and sarcastic natures-years of chess games and shrapnel, years of cold nights and hot summer days, years of trenches and bombs and gunfire. Years of staying awake in their tents together, unable to go to sleep because the thunder always left them with the feeling of being under attack. Years of reading together, poetry and philosophy and fiction-of telling each other of their feelings for Matthew and Alfred, of devising this escape to Paris. The rain blurred their vision and dampened Francis's cape (Alfred and Arthur and even Matthew never passed up an opportunity to mock him for it), and for a while the only passage of time that either of them were aware of was the dripping of raindrops from Francis's long hair onto the back of Arthur's neck.

It was three hundred and forty four drops later that the two of them stepped away from each other-Alfred had been counting. They both nodded once, as if to confirm that the other would be okay, and, reassured, Arthur went to stand beside his lover, taking his hand as he did so.

"I propose a toast," Francis murmured. The other two looked at him in puzzlement, given the lack of drinks or other social indicators that a toast was the appropriate response to the situation. Raising an invisible glass, he continued, "To the rest of our lives-may the future years be happier than the past ones."

And with that, all three turned their faces up into the rain and smiled.


	9. The Thunder

AN: A FrUk story for a (belated) FrUk day!

Arthur absolutely hated having meetings in Canada, especially in April. Most countries were quite sensible about where they held their meetings; America had his in DC, the seat of his government; he had his in London, a city with some of the finest history and culture in the world; even Spain, who he detested, had his in Barcelona, where it was sunny and there was usually a football match going on. Now, it wasn't that he disliked Canada as a whole. Not at all. He found some of the cities in Quebec to be quite beautiful, and in all parts of the country there was usually a live hockey game to watch. He wouldn't pretend to understand the game, but it was action packed and interesting to watch. But because Canada got all in a tizzy about "protecting the secret of the nations" or some bullshit like that, they were currently situated in a small cabin in the middle of fucking nowhere with no one but each other for company. Bloody brilliant.

Also, in what other country would it be _sleeting _in _April_?

But he steeled himself against weather and lack of cellphone service and America's endless ranting about superheroes, telling himself that he just had to make it to the end of the day. That was it-just to the end of the day. Meetings always got better after the first day of ridiculous suggestions had concluded. And indeed, his day was looking up. The kind woman who ran the resort (who must have been eternally grateful for so many customers during the slow season) had brewed him an excellent cup of tea and sandwiches-crusts cut off and all. The sleet had tapered off into a light drizzle, not unlike his own London rain. And before dinner, someone lit the large fireplace in the main dining area that gave the whole place a warm and cozy feeling. Plus, sitting close to the fire gave him the added benefit of being at the farthest point in the room from France. Most of the nations wanted to retire early; several of them were dealing with some rather unfortunate cases of jet lag and everyone (well, everyone worth listening to) wanted a fresh start for tomorrow. It took Canada a while, mostly due to the other countries being unable to hear him, but he did manage to herd them together and read out the room assignments.

"Germany and Italy...myself and Prussia...China and Russia...Norway and Denmark...Japan and Korea...America and Ukraine...Switzerland and England..."

England breathed a sigh of relief. Sure, Vash was dreadfully boring at times and altogether a little trigger-happy, but he knew for certain that he wouldn't be dealing with late night drunkenness or other tomfoolery. Besides, they might actually be able to use their mornings wisely and discuss what had gone on during the meetings, as both of them were early risers. All of this would have been entirely possible had Canada not made a fatal mistake:

"...and France and Liechtenstein." Poor Matthew had barely even finished his sentence before Switzerland was on his feet, glaring at the blonde haired nation, who was currently sipping a glass of wine. England snorted. How typical.

"I absolutely refuse to let my little sister sleep with that...sleaze of a nation," he said, jerking his chin towards the offender. "She will be rooming with me."

"Vash, this really isn't-"

"Lili, does he look trustworthy to you?" Arthur might have been imagining it, but he thought France actually looked a little hurt at that statement. The way he was currently worrying his lip certainly seemed to indicate that, in any case.

Poor Matthew looked at a loss for words. Canada, like Japan, was so polite and hated upsetting the other nations-especially since they were his guests.

"I'm so sorry, Vash...I don't know how the rooms can be rearranged...everyone already has a roommate and some of them have already retired for the evening. Reorganizing the rooms would be incredibly difficult..."

It was now that Francis decided to speak up.

"Lili could room with Vash and we could avoid disturbing anyone if Arthur and I room together."

Oh no. Oh _no way in hell. _

But Matthew was sending him such a pleading look, absolutely begging him to help this meeting go smoothly, and Switzerland looked like he might kill him if he didn't accept. So, scowling as he did so, he agreed to room with France.

The problems had started as soon as they arrived. Firstly, there was only one bed in the room. That and that ridiculous little couch thing.

"It's a _divan, _you barbarian."

And that was all the two nations needed to set off a particularly spectacular round of fistfighting. Then Francis had decided to take a shower at nearly midnight-"I wasn't tired" was all he had to offer in his defense-and the running water kept Arthur awake for another hour. And when he finally did emerge, he was wearing nothing but a towel slung around his hips so carelessly it looked as though it might drop to the floor at any second. Arthur swallowed, mumbling

"Put some clothes on, frog," as he did so. Francis, after much unnecessary hip-wriggling, eventually consented to do so, at which point he promptly crawled into bed.

"I wanted the bed."

"But I'm already in the bed."

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Yes, but I _wanted_ the bed. I have a bad back."

"It is because you are getting old, mon ami. You could always share with me, surely that is not so terrible?"

"Forget I said anything. Goodnight, frog."

France chuckled. "Goodnight, my very grouchy rabbit."

It was 3:24 when Arthur woke up to the sound of thunder. He shivered, turning into the back of the couch-divan-hoping that would lend some warmth, and readjusted the throw cushion he was using as a makeshift pillow. It had left a crick in his neck. The thunder boomed again, and Arthur flinched involuntarily.

"I know you are awake, Arthur."

He sighs. France is really not one of the entities he really wants to deal with right now.

"Go to sleep, Francis. I'm just a little cold."

A moment's pause, and then his voice rises from the bed again.

"I am more than willing to share my blankets with you."

Arthur snorts. "My friend, I am not so cold that I have forgotten my pride."

"Then do it for me. I am cold myself." England turns the words over in his head, trying to figure out what advantage France can possibly gain from this. He shakes his head, deducing that he will never understand the Frenchman.

"I'm sure you'll live," he mutters, and he hears Francis's long suffering sigh before they both turn over and shut their eyes. But try as he might, he can't shut out the sound of the thunder. Each echoing boom is a musket shot from Alfred, a cannon's boom against the Light Brigade, and worst of all, the endless bombardment of the Blitz. After the third flinch Francis interrupts again.

"Arthur, for god's sake, stop being so stubborn and just get in the bed."

"No."

"I'll share the blankets with you."

"No."

"You, my little grumpy rabbit, are one of the most stubborn nations I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. Would it make you feel any better if I said I knew the reason why you're awake?"

"No."

"Is that the only word you know?"

"No." And at this point, for some reason, Arthur finds himself smiling. He's not quite sure why-it's nearly half past three in the morning, he's cold, his neck hurts, he's sharing a room with his arch-rival, and there's a thunderstorm going on outside-but France is making him laugh. The other man interrupts his train of thought by getting out of bed and turning on the lamp.

"-yes, turn on the fucking sun in the middle of the night, why don't you?" England mutters, scowling as he does so. France just shrugs.

"Just be grateful the power's not out. I love my dear Mathieu, really, but his government is being utterly nonsensical about the need for secrecy. I haven't seen civilisation for miles." And again, against all rationality, Arthur finds himself laughing out loud. France digs around in his suitcase for a while and comes up with a bottle of wine-of course-a rosé if he's not mistaken. Arthur always had a weak spot for rosé wine. Francis uncorks the bottle and drinks straight from its mouth, which startles Arthur because he'd expected more refinement from his roommate. Francis must have read his look, because he laughs and passes the bottle.

"Arthur, mon cher, it is nearly four in the morning and I am freezing. Now is not the time for formality." On that front Arthur has to agree. He takes a long drink from the bottle, and the wine is quite good. Crisp but sweet, with a definite taste of summer to its grapes, a pleasant reminder of warmer seasons to come. It would benefit from some chilling, he thinks, but as there isn't a mini fridge in their room, they'll have to make do. The moments between them are long and quiet as they pass the bottle back and forth, and it is only a few minutes of the silence before Arthur breaks the tension.

"What did you mean, you know why I'm awake?"

Francis actually looks at him with an almost sympathetic look, as though he can't quite fathom why the nation in front of him is so confused.

"You're afraid of thunder," he says quietly, and England just stares at him irrationally angry and terribly afraid that it is _that fucking obvious _to everyone who knows him. But Francis continues.

"You don't like thunder because it reminds you of your worst memories. Your worst memories are built on gunpowder and smoke-and the lightning and echoes brings it all back." He chuckles ruefully at Arthur's expression. "We all bear those scars, mon lapin-you don't have to hide them from me. After all, why do you think I hate the sound of sharpening knives or the crackle of a cozy fireplace?" France is smiling, but his words don't match the haunted look in his eyes, and Arthur knows that the last thing he is thinking of is a cozy fireplace. The answer comes to him suddenly, because it is as much his as it is Francis's-Joan, Joan and Marie, the dark years of war and revolution. The same as his. It always comes back to the same thing. Different wars, different revolutions, but the nations bear the same scars. On the surface, all their wounds show differently; Japan's two burns that bloom across his shoulder blades for Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Lithuania's the scars of Russia's reign, Spain the long-knit line that shows where he used to be divided between Castile and Aragon. But underneath it all, the same memories haunt them; blood and fire, war and revolution, their people dead in the gutters or on the executioner's scaffold or buried beneath the rubble of buildings.

Francis is still watching him put the pieces together, and England is aware, for the first time of how strange his thinking must look to an outsider. He rarely does any active thinking in meetings, so as to avoid putting himself on the spot. It would never do to have another country see what he might be planning-that information could put them a step ahead of him. If the enemy doesn't know what your planning, they can't outwit you. He always built a certain degree of flexibility into his plans of course, but the other countries were so predictable that this usually wasn't necessary. Alfred, Francis, Italy-they all wore their hearts on their sleeves, caring not if the other nations saw or no. But Arthur-Arthur was a private thinker, and having Francis watch him left him with a lingering sensation of self-consciousness. His discomfort is palpable, but Francis surprises him yet again.

He sets aside the bottle of wine and very carefully puts his arms around the smaller nation. Arthur tenses-is this one of the notoriously lewd nations plans for pity sex-but Francis just holds him. And several minutes later, Arthur puts his arms around Francis in return. It doesn't quite feel like a crying moment; it feels deeper, more vulnerable than that. Time passes, Arthur isn't sure how much. He can't have had more than a third of the bottle of wine, but his head feels strangely fuzzy and his body feels warm. He feels Francis's arms tighten around him, and then he feels himself being lifted off the floor. He stiffens for an instant, then relaxes into the other nation's arms once more.

"Come to bed, mon lapin," Francis coaxes, and Arthur obliges, curling next to him beneath the blankets.

* * *

When he wakes, early morning sunshine is peeking through the drapes, uncomfortably bright. He buries his head into Francis's chest in response, hoping to shut it out. Francis chuckles, and the sound produces a deep syncopated vibration running counterpoint to the steady thumping of his heartbeat.

"I am afraid it is time to get up, my love."

"Don't call me love," Arthur snaps, albeit without much venom.

"Would you prefer to stay in bed all day?" Francis murmurs, running his fingers through Arthur's hair.

"Mm...you're comfy," he mumbles in return, words muffled by the warmth of Francis's skin.

And Francis smiles, the two of them sinking back into slumber with the memory of rosé wine still lingering on their lips.


	10. Surprises

Surprises

France really isn't sure what he's doing here. After all, he already knows how to cook, so why he enrolled in the "Basics for Beginners" class at the New York School of Culinary Arts is beyond him. Maybe it's because he wants to get his feet under him surrounded by an atmosphere that he's familiar with. After all, he grew up in the kitchen; rolling out short pastry with his grandmère in Toulouse, stirring cassoulet with his cousins, or when his mother had remarried and he had gotten to work with his new stepfather in his restaurant. Maybe it's because his friends keep telling him to go out and meet new people, and here is as good a place as any. Or maybe it's because he's thirty and entirely unsure of where his life is taking him right now; although he has a stable job, it's not a career, and he has neither a current partner nor a remarkably interesting social life to help lift him out of the tedium. He surveys the small, eclectic group of people in the room: a grey haired business man probably going through a midlife crisis, a blonde woman a little younger than him interlacing her fingers and chewing on her lip, a stoic gentleman in glasses and a college-aged girl in a headscarf beside him, both reading a different copy of the same textbook, A History of Art and Music in the Baroque Period. They, at least, look mildly interesting-and very happily coupled up, he thinks as he notices that the hands that are not propping up the large and glossy anthology are holding one another.

His train of thought is interrupted by the arrival of the instructor, a peppy woman with badly-dyed hair who introduces herself as Carol. Francis has to keep himself from snorting; women like that are always named Carol or Susie or something else equally saccharine. She is just about to ask them to go around the circle and introduce themselves when the door chimes again and another student, somewhat winded, joins them. He can't help but grin-this one is definitely going to be the interesting member of the class. He has short, sandy blonde hair that sticks up at the front, and is wearing a vintage looking bomber jacket. He adjusts his glasses and shoots everyone a grin, promptly introducing himself as Alfred F. Jones. Francis desperately wants to ask him what the F. stands for but doesn't. The others around the room introduce themselves-he isn't paying attention to the first two but catch that the textbook bearing college couple are named Roderich and Elizaveta-and after he concludes the rite, the instructor tells them to pair off. He grabs Alfred without a second thought, which seems to surprise the other man.

"Dude, are you sure you want me as your partner? Because I can only cook burgers."

Francis has to keep himself from laughing. Normally he holds a certain level of disdain for the culinarily unsophisticated, but Alfred's honesty has a certain degree of charm to it.

"It will all work out, mon ami. Trust me."

"Mon ami? Is that, like, Spanish or something?" Francis pretends to look horribly offended-he doesn't have to try very hard, he is proud of his mother tongue-and objects.

"But it is _French,_ Alfred, the language of love! The language of beauty!"

The college couple is looking at him a little skeptically out of the corner of their eyes, but Alfred actually looks intrigued.

"French. Huh. I went to New Orleans once, but their French sounded different. I've never been out of the country before," he remarks offhandedly, and that surprises Francis.

"Vraiment? I mean, really?"

Alfred shrugs. "I grew up in the Midwest. Not a whole lot of traveling where I came from-I'm the first one in three generations to leave Indiana," he says proudly, and Francis shoots him a smile.

"Congratulations."

Alfred grins at him in return. "I can't exactly be a hero out in the middle of nowhere, can I?"

Francis realises that he's not even paying the smallest bit of attention to what the instructor is saying, and consequently has no idea what they're meant to be cooking. He decides to go with an old standby and reaches for the asparagus as he looks at Alfred with a smile and says,

"A hero?"

"Yeah! I stopped my roommate from burning the whole building down!"

This alarms Francis. "An arsonist?" Apparently, this idea is amusing to Alfred, because he laughs and rocks back on his heels as Francis methodically chops shallots.

"Nah, Iggy's just a terrible cook. Iggy's my roommate at Colombia, only he's going for his Master's degree." Francis pushes the fact that Alfred, who he has to admit is rather cute, is only in college to the back of his brain.

"I'm sorry, _Iggy? _And how in the world did he manage to cause a fire just by cooking?"

"I don't know how he does it either, man! Must be some sort of gift. He just decided to bake scones one morning and next thing I know the whole oven's in flames!" Realising he still hadn't answered the first question, Alfred barreled on. "Iggy's just my nickname for him. Arthur's his real name-Arthur Kirkland-but I call him Iggy. Or Artie."

And Francis couldn't contain his laughter any more, coming dangerously close to cutting his finger as he mashed garlic.

"I should have known," he managed to get out between chuckles, shaking his head.

"Dude, do you know Iggy?"

"I suppose you could say our paths have crossed," he countered with a smirk. Looking at Alfred's eager expression, he hesitated for just a second before continuing with the story. "We were rivals, first and foremost; our universities used to compete against one another. As we were both heavily involved in athletics at our schools, we seemed fated to be pitted against each other in every sport conceivable-football, boating, cricket. We were, of course, the stars of our respective universities, and very evenly matched. I confess that we were rather competitive as well-we always brought out the best and worst in each other when we were competing. Both of our alma maters have remarked that the quality of sports teams at our school has never quite returned to the level which it was at when we were attending. There were a few petty practical jokes between us as well-" here he lifted his eyebrows to indicate that those jokes had been far less 'petty' and far closer to 'warfare', which made Alfred laugh. "-but somehow we ended up becoming friends underneath it all. Drinking buddies mostly, but we still drop each other a line from time to time, Christmas cards and all that. So you're the obnoxious American roommate?"

Alfred mock scowled. "Iggy just doesn't see my charms. But he loves me underneath it all," and flashed Francis a cheeky grin. "Care to tell me about any of those 'petty practical jokes'?"

Francis was only too happy to oblige. "Once, Gilbert, Antonio, and I wanted revenge after a particularly suspicious defeat..."

Francis had hardly noticed the time passing. The stories that he and Alfred shared kept his mind busy, and the endless stirring and slicing kept his hands busy. By the time the three hours was up, he actually felt sorry. He'd pictured the class as being an utter waste of time-and yet he'd immensely enjoyed Alfred's company. _Stop that, _his inner voice of reason was telling him. _He's nine years younger than you and you don't even know if he's gay! _Somehow, that did nothing to lessen his disappointment.

When Carol came round to inspect their work, her eyebrows lifted.

"Mr. Bonnefoy, this is not what I instructed the class to prepare. Furthermore, this dish is well beyond a beginner's capability-it is closer to the quality I would expect from a restaurant. Why are you here, exactly?" Francis meets her eyes and the challenge unflinchingly.

"I wanted to try something new. Meet new people." The sniff she gives him clearly says 'Do that on someone else's time, why don't you?' but she moves on. He has no idea what's gotten her knickers in a twist-he still paid her, didn't he?

He helps Alfred clean up the workstation. Really, the young American wasn't a half bad cook, and he certainly was hard working. Somehow Francis doubted that there would be any disasters in the kitchen in the future-unless Arthur got too close to the stove. He shook his head. The man really was a terrible cook.

He's not sure what persuades him to say it, as they're nearly out the door. As always, he reverts to his typical French mannerisms in times of great distress-and as flashily as possible, he grabs Alfred by the arm and dips him backward. He murmurs,

"Would you like to join me for dinner on Friday evening?"

He is mortified, he's not sure what has come over him. Yes, he's a terrible flirt, but he only does that seriously with people who have already expressed interest in him and only in jest with friends, like Gil or Antonio or Arthur. Not with mostly-strangers he's known for a few hours. But Alfred, as he always does, surprises him by leaning in and whispering,

"I'd like that." The pair straighten, and Alfred shoots him his trademark grin. Perhaps Francis is imagining it, but it seems a little more flirtatious than before. "You can reach me at Iggy's landline-pick me up at six thirty?" When Francis nods as confirmation, he starts leaning towards the door, but then thinks better of it and leans back in. He kisses Francis on the cheek, just lightly, and then careens out of the building just as fast as he came in.

Francis smiles like a fool all six blocks back to his apartment.


	11. Coffee, Black (But With Two Sugars)

Coffee, Black (But With Two Sugars)

Switzerland loved his morning coffee. In fact, he was entirely incapable of functioning without it. After all, a man like him deserved a good, strong cup of coffee in the morning, what with all the policing of the other, less responsible nations he had to do.

All right, if he was being perfectly honest, he hated the taste of coffee.

It was just...so bitter! It was black and burnt and tasted a little bit like how petroleum smelled, but he drank it black anyway because it kept him on his toes. Also, loathe as he was to admit it, coffee was always taken black in Roderich's household, as that was how both he and Elizaveta enjoyed their coffee, and he'd kept up the habit ever since.

And then Lili had moved in with him, and his morning routine had changed entirely. Vash was under the impression that there were two different types of morning people: those who genuinely, truly enjoyed the morning and those who rose at the crack of dawn because they had important things to do. He fell firmly into the latter category-in fact, he had yet to meet anyone who loved the morning. Until Lili. She loved to get up to watch the sunrise and go out and pick the wildflowers that grew so abundantly around their house still wet with dew. She loved to make simple breakfasts, brown bread with strong cheese and smoked meats, she loved making herself a small pot of tea that smelt of lemons and raspberries. And her habits slowly started creeping into his mornings as well.

It started off small, with a little bouquet of flowers in a vase on the kitchen table. They were always fresh, changed every two to three days, and when he had voiced no objections after a week, the vases started multiplying. Now they had two on the table, one on the counter, and three perched precariously upon the windowsill. A few weeks after that, he'd come shuffling into the kitchen to find a breakfast plate already laid out for him: two rolls with some excellent gruyere and a well spiced salami. Again he did not voice any objections, and this was likewise incorporated into his daily routine.

For several months there were other, similar changes. Although they both ate their breakfasts in silence-sometimes not even sitting down at the table together-Lili began to leave little bits of her sunshine about the kitchen and breakfast room. A newspaper, always neatly folded next to his cutlery. A sprig of lavender cut from the little herbal garden she had started on his napkin. His slippers freshly warmed. The handcrafted pyjamas, however hideous the shade of pink might have been. And for once, Vash, who was so resistant to change, just accepted the little deviations as part of a new morning routine. Likewise, he began to leave out little things for Lili. He picked up a handkerchief embroidered with primroses when he was walking back from a meeting with his boss because he remembered they were her favourite flower. Whenever the florist's market was having a sale on seeds and bulbs, he remembered to pick up a packet for her. He started to remember to check the tea cupboard before he went out to the supermarket to make sure she had tea for her breakfasts. And following after her brother, Liechtenstein accepted these new aspects of their morning routine without question.

The one thing that she never touched was his coffee. Perhaps it was because she knew that he was entirely dependent upon the caffeinated beverage in order to not be more trigger happy than he already was. Perhaps it was because she found the beverage repulsively strong, like England. Or perhaps she knew that her brother was still slowly adjusting to her presence in his household. It wasn't until they had been living together for nearly a year that she asked him why he took it black, and Vash had only shrugged, unable to think of a good answer.

The next morning, when he descended to the breakfast room, he found the steaming cup of coffee already set out for him, next to his place setting. Wary, he sniffed at it, then tasted. It was strong, there was no doubt about that-but sweet, also. And it really was much better this way. Lili was facing away from him, washing up her own breakfast dishes, and he decided not to interrupt her. But he smiled, and for once finished his entire mug.

Sugar in his coffee for a sweeter chapter of his life, he thought with a smile. And for the first time he invited his little sister to sit and talk with him over breakfast.


	12. Unsent Letters

Unsent Letters

France whacked his head on the sloped ceiling. Cursing loudly and clutching his head, he pause to scowl menacingly at the offending part of his house before continuing with his task. It was high time he cleaned the attic; after all, he thinks that the last time he was up here was after the Second Great War ended. France isn't really one to dawdle in the past. After all, the time at hand is the time most enjoyable, he thinks. He pushes his way through artifacts, smiling at some and frowning at others, shaking layers of dust off of the objects alike. He passes a sword from his war with Prussia and Spain, the very first act of friendship among the Bad Touch Trio, and he laughs aloud at the memories of their drunken nights camped out on the battlefield. He frowns at a bloodstained handkerchief, a remnant of the Terror, his darkest days. Silk stockings and lipstick from the height of artistic popularity in the 20s-he knew he had something from Zelda around here somewhere. Lace fans and artificial roses from the grandeur of the 19th century, leaving him lost in a wandering daydream of high kicks and swirling skirts. Ropes of pearls from the grand masquerade of the Cloth of Gold, and a splintered lance from a tourney that he rode in what feels like eons ago. He wades in past years and dust mites and long forgotten memories, including those that should have perhaps stayed buried.

He isn't looking for the chest when he finds it; rather, it is a painful discovery bravely undergone by one of his toes as the rest of him was tending to far less adventurous tasks. The chest looks older than anything else in the room. It is battered cherrywood, and the bronze that holds it together is well scratched. The lock is crudely made and engraved with some of his earliest art that still evokes the Celtic styles of Gaul. The dust on _this _one is so thick that he needs to sweep the lid three times before he can see it for what it truly is, and he laughs. The sound is a little tinny.

Gilbert-dear Gilbert, who thought himself the centre of the universe-wrote diaries (although recently he'd upgraded to blogs). He wrote by himself, for himself, about himself; his was a history told in the written word, told in self-contemplation. Antonio preferred mementos; his was a story told in trinkets. All nations kept reminders of their great ages, of their times of greatest power, of war and culture; but Spain was a borderline hoarder. He kept anything of the littlest significance, from a quill he once used to write phallic poetry in the fifteenth century to a pair of shoes he'd danced in at the latest Eurovision contest.

But Francis-Francis's life had always been about other people. France was the nation of love, of art, of culture, all of which needed the appreciation of other people to thrive. So France's history was told in letters.

Mildly curious (and yet dreading to know, or rather confirm, what was inside), France spent the next several minutes searching for the key. When his attempts succeeded in no venture except perhaps ruining his clothes, he simply shrugged and grabbed the nearest weapon: a pistol. He slammed the butt of it into the lock (_after _checking that it was unloaded, he was not an idiot), and on the third try it cracked. The contents of the chest were remarkably well preserved, especially considering their age. Shunting aside boxes and military uniforms and old canvases, he sinks down until he is sitting cross-legged on the floor, and then pulls the leaves of paper into his lap and begins to read.

_Dear England,_

_You're stupid. I hate you. You and your stupid messy hair and those horrendous caterpillars you call eyebrows. _

_France_

* * *

_Dear England,_

_I will never forgive you. If it weren't for you, Jeanne wouldn't have died. Know this, bâtard-I will never, ever forget that you were the one who took her away from me. _

_France_

Well, that wasn't very encouraging. He continues to sort through the vellum and parchment, and soldiers on in his reading.

_Dear England,_

_Remind me to never ever ever invite you to a "conference of mutual interests" again. In fact, I think it would be better off for all of us if our royal families perhaps never even met again. I never knew festivities could be so...boring. Also, your food is barbaric to the point of it being hardly edible. If I am served one more piece of boiled, brown, unidentifiable meat I will scream. And your "delicacies," like the peacock...burnt beyond the point of rescue. Horrendous.  
_

_France_

_P.S. Your fashion sense is improving, though. That green doublet you were wearing made you look almost__ attractive. Must be all the times you've been watching moi._

* * *

_Dear England,_

_...I don't know why I care, but your leaving the Church worries me. I know this Henri of yours can be difficult, but surely you can come to some sort of agreement? I worry for your soul._

_France_

* * *

_Dear England, _

_Occasionally I forget what an idiot your queen is; it's a trait she shares with you. I know you're utterly enamored with her, but she will never love you. She's refused every proposal of marriage, and she will die soon anyway. It shan't be tomorrow, it shan't be next week, but to us it will seem the blink of an eye. And I hope you will understand what it means to love a mortal and have them taken away from you. I hope all your love freezes in your heart in shards and you finally understand what I lost when I lost Jeanne. Strange, how it gives me no pleasure to write this. Perhaps because I know she is lost to me. I think I have drunk too much wine; when Elizabeth dies I advise you do the same._

_France_

* * *

_Dear England,_

_My dear Arthur, you can't possibly be serious about making Prussia your ally. I concede that you and I have had our spats, and no one will deny that I am eager for another chance to show you up, but I can't help but fear for your sanity. Prussia? Ten minutes with Gilbert will leave you mad, if you aren't already. I hope you know what you're doing._

_France_

* * *

_Dear England,_

_America is my little brother. End of._

_France_

* * *

_Dear England,_

_If you can't have America I get Canada. It's only fair. Otherwise we won't be neighbours anymore and how will we continue our squabbles then? _

_France_

* * *

_Dear England,_

_Oh, cher, I am so sorry. I know you didn't want to lose Alfred. He meant the world to you, didn't he? He was your world, your new world, your fresh and shiny chance. You had to let him go, though, don't you see? Because otherwise he would have grown to despise you more, had you kept him there. And I can't think of anything that would break your heart more. I was wrong, when I said Elizabeth was your Jeanne. Alfred is. Alfred is your ashes-of-roses. _

_Je suis desolé._

_France_

* * *

_Dear England,_

_Fuck you, you son of a whore. By what right do you seize my ships? By what right do you block my trade? Are you the king, that we all must bow down to you? Are you a god now? You don't believe in god, you heathen, so instead you made yourself one._

_France_

* * *

_Dear England,_

_I tried to warn you not to try and take Alfred back. It only hurts you the more. Didn't you learn that from watching Canada and myself? Don't you ever learn, you stupid, arrogant, foolish, prideful nation?_

_France_

* * *

_Dear England,_

_I know it's been a while since we've talked last. I just can't shake the feeling that something dreadful is going to happen soon...like the world will fall out from under our feet._

_France_

* * *

_This has to be written quickly. Even ink is rationed now. Please get here quickly. We need you. Men are dying, some shot some gassed some starving but we're all dying. Please hurry. I'll even grovel but...I don't want to be the next one found dead in a ditch. We need you-I need you, Arthur._

* * *

_Dear England,_

_If we're going to die we might as well die together. I cannot think of a nobler, braver, more stubborn companion to die beside. You're waking, so I should hide this. Can't have you reading my letters. _

_France_

* * *

_Dear England,_

_You must be sick...you must be sick too. You are, aren't you? God knows poor Alfred's taken the worst of it economically, but it seems to be contagious. How ironic. Don't...don't worry yourself worse over him. I know you always do. He fought in the war with us, he can take care of himself. Unlike you, apparently, because you are so busy with everyone else. Please don't forget being England when you are being an Empire...after all, that happened to me in Russia and I have never been the same since._

_France_

* * *

_Dear England,_

_I thought we were done with hellfire. I thought we were done with Great Wars. I thought we were done with all of this...god, Arthur, please be alive, please still be fighting, because the world doesn't stand a chance without you. Stay strong, my knight._

_England_

* * *

_Dear England, _

_I saw Ludwig today. I don't think I've ever seen him look that miserable. He's at war within himself as much as I am; for every man who shoots a prisoner ten are smuggled across the border. I've seen him helping them, trying to reach for the good inside him. Promise me...promise me you'll never let your boss get as evil as his. I don't think I could live through seeing the emptiness in your eyes._

_France_

* * *

_Dear England STOP_

_I am so hungry even your food sounds appetizing to me now STOP I didn't think I'd ever get that desperate, but the moment has arrived STOP_

_Alright, so I didn't send this just to insult your food STOP I know about the Blitz, and I want you to send me a telegram as soon as you receive this STOP Let me know you're safe STOP I know you're in pain, let me help you if I can STOP Be sure to telegram Alfred, he worries about you STOP Don't let Scotland handle the get well food you know he'll make haggis without you to supervise him in the kitchen STOP Please be safe be strong STOP ...After all, who will I bicker with if you leave STOP_

_France STOP_

* * *

_Dear England,_

_100 years of the Entente Cordiale, hmm? Who would have thought it would last this long? If you told me three centuries ago I would have laughed. Maybe spat in your face, who knows? But I want you to know I'm glad we signed it. I'm glad we fought in the Wars as allies. I'm glad you made it through okay. Yes, I'm glad._

_France_

* * *

Francis let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. He wasn't certain what it meant, to have all of the letters laid out in the open, and he wasn't sure he liked it. It left him vulnerable, exposed to the truth he and Arthur kept denying.

Arthur. Arthur-yes, he knew _exactly_ what he was going to do with the letters now.

* * *

Arthur Kirkland is not expecting mail. Although he has always been a lover of the written word and old fashioned communication, both his boss and the other nations prefer using more modern technology in order to communicate. Humans wouldn't be sending him mail-so why would there be a package on his doorstep. Shrugging, he lugged it to the kitchen table-it was heavy, what in the world was in it?-and set to unwrapping. Being unable to find a pair of scissors, but discovering the box to be heavily taped, the unwrapping had taken the better part of an hour. And when he finally opened the box, he was greeted by a perfectly ordinary sight-paper.

No, not paper. Letters. Hundreds of them. Who would send so many letters at once? Who had written them all? It had to be one of the nations, no one else could have lived that long, but still, it seemed awfully impractical of them. Still, Arthur had never been one to turn down a good mystery (after all, his nation had created Sherlock Holmes) and he set to reading. The first few letters he hardly spared a glance-he should have known it was France sending him hateful letters, and wondered how long he'd been writing these; probably Antonio had put him up to sending them at long last, now that he didn't have an army and pirates at his back. He considered burning the letters, or wondered if shredding them would be more satisfying.

But even for France, a plot of hate-mail revenge seemed a bit much; and if it turned out to be the case, then he could always use what was written in them as fodder for revenge. But he noticed that the letters, which had started off so cruel, grew to blow hot and cold, and there was almost something like genuine affection in the latter ones.

England, unlike France or the Italies, may not have styled himself an expert on romance, but he was a master of storytelling-and even he knew what kind of story had been written on these pages. He might have found amusing that the so called "country of love" could not bring himself to confess, had it not been...rather touching. Fishing his cellphone out from the jumbled reading material that had piled up on his breakfast table, he dialed France's number, determined to spit out what the other nation could not. The phone rang once, twice, a third time-and he finally picked up.

"Allo? C'est Francis qui parle. Comment ça va?"

"France. France, it's me."

"Oh! Arthur!" For once, Francis switched over to English without being hounded about it twenty times. "To what do I owe the..._pleasure_ of this call?"

Arthur would have rolled his eyes at the innuendo, had he not been so focused on trying to spit out his next words.

"Francis, I-"

"Oui?"

"I-thank you. Just thank you."

A long and pregnant pause on the other end of the line. Arthur could have sworn that his heart had stopped so long ago any mortal being would have been dead by now. Had he misread the letters? Did Francis not understand that this was his confession, as much as he could muster? Then Francis spoke.

"You are most welcome. Lapin, would you like to accompany me to dinner?"

And Arthur smiled and smiled and smiled, and replied in return,

"Oui."


End file.
